


Forget it

by Tumblesead



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Drunk Arthur, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Protective John Marston, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tumblesead/pseuds/Tumblesead
Summary: ㅤㅤ"Oh, Arthur. I am unsure of many things."The letter. It's still in his satchel, he thinks, and as Arthur shakily puts a hand in his bag, only to feel the paper shift and crumple at his rough touch, he can't bring himself to read it again. The world is too blurry, anyway, the words would be a mess. His mess. What had he done? Was it even his fault? Had he not fought hard enough? All those years, all those damn years, gone. That woman played him and he doesn't even know if she knew she was doing it. If she knew how his heart yearned for her, how he felt like a kid around her, flustered, nervous."I am unsure if I want to be your friend."ㅤㅤIn which Mary hurts Arthur and John is there to help pick up the pieces, even if he doesn't quite know how to.ㅤㅤ
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis Linton & Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Forget it

There's dizziness, the world is bright, too bright, too blurry, too dark and the edges of his vision pulsate in time with his heartbeat, but his thoughts are clear. He doesn't know what he did, but he knows there is soft grass under him, the cold autumn air crisp, carrying the scattered bird song.

_"We're moving, across the sea..."_

Arthur's heart aches, more than it has in a long time. Not for loss, he knew he had no chance. Not for hope, either. But... Well, for something that wasn't this. He can't quite pull himself upright, not that he's really trying anyway. There's the taste of alcohol on his lips, along with the bitter taste of blood.  
That's right, a fight.

_"To England, I mean. And..."_

He probably threw the first punch. A man, a blonde one with an eyepatch, he had sneered something to him and Arthur, in his drunken state, had punched him hard and fast. He can't quite remember what happened after that, all he knows is that he stumbled out the back of the saloon, he remembers riding his trusted horse, and then falling. He'd been a bigger fool then he thought he could possibly be.

_"Oh, Arthur. I am unsure of many things."_

The letter. It's still in his satchel, he thinks, and as Arthur shakily puts a hand in his bag, only to feel the paper shift and crumple at his rough touch, he can't bring himself to read it again. The world is too blurry, anyway, the words would be a mess. His mess. What had he done? Was it even his fault? Had he not fought hard enough? All those years, all those _damn_ years, gone. That woman played him and he doesn't even know if she knew she was doing it. If she knew how his heart yearned for her, how he felt like a kid around her, flustered, nervous.

_"I am unsure if I want to be your friend."_

The words, they stung like they do this very moment. Even with his head pounding, his jaw aching, his chest heaving, his body so so heavy and his limbs so very weak, it stings. Mary was a lost chance, a fading hope but he couldn't leave well enough alone. Arthur liked Mary, but Mary's world didn't like him. Mary didn't like his world. He couldn't blame her.

But, to summon him, to tell him that he will never see her again, nor hear from her, and then-

Arthur stills as he moves his hand around in his satchel. The ring. He'd given it to Mary years ago, when they were both young and dumb. She'd given it back to him and he had stood there, lost, her words not quite getting through to him and echoing in his head at the same time as she stepped onto the Saint Denis trolley. Arthur thinks he should be happy, she's getting away from everything, from this whole mess... But...

_"Goodbye, Arthur."_

He curls in on himself with a groan, hand resting on his bruised stomach and his breath hitches when there's a spike of pain from his ribs. He's hurting bad and the alcohol is no doubt masking most of the pain, but it all seems so distant.  
His horse, a mustang he had broken and formed quite a good bond with over the weeks he had him, snorted as he ate the grass nearby.  
  
Mary wanted to run away with him at some point, but... All of that dreaming stopped when he had serious issues, when the law started coming down on them hard. She had loved him, but-but... Well...  
  
"Arthur?"  
  
Instantly, Arthur suddenly finds the strength to sit upright, alert. He can hear him getting closer, he knows that despite the concern in his voice there's a smile upon his lips. Arthur thanks God, if there is one, that he's facing away so he has a few seconds more to try his best to collect himself.  
  
"Not now, Marston."

Arthur had travelled all the way to Rhodes, not that he remembers much of the journey. The Brathwaite and The Gray's issues were past now, he suspects they killed all of those who saw his face anyway. Sean...  
He had drunk, fought, started riding back to their camp in Shady Belle but then the soft grass was under him, the stars were bright above him, Mary's words rang in his head like church-bells. He was not in the mood for John right now, he doubted he could hide his injuries and his drunkenness from him, but he could hide Mary.

"You good? What happened?"  
Always asking. Arthur unsteadily pulls himself to his feet, still facing away from John, holding in an annoyed and pained grunt. His hand slips out of the satchel and he can hear Old Boy come to a stop near him. He can hear the birds still, he can hear his heart thrumming and- and no, he doesn't think he can hide Mary from him. He can't.

"I said not now." Arthur growls back, but the venom is lost through the slurred words. God, he must look like a mess. Must smell like one too.

"Hosea sent me and Charles out lookin' for you. What you doing all the way out here?" John asks carefully, the smile long since gone. Arthur knew John knew why; to drink. He always went away from camp to drink heavily so he wouldn't be ashamed to face the ones he loved while he was in a state he hated the most. Drunk, heart broken, vulnerable. Like this, he was a shadow of his former self, and making people think that he was weak, that he couldn't work- that he couldn't pull his own weight and do his duty? No, he wouldn't allow that. It was embarrassing, anyway. He didn't want people looking at him with pity- because he knew they would do that if he showed up at camp in this state, they'd done it before. He didn't need pity, he didn't need anyone.  
The cool breeze did nothing to ground him, his world was spinning but he stayed still and upright. Bou, his mustang, the horse he had foolishly named after the Brathwaite boy, was just a few feet away. If he could just-

"Arthur!"

John, he's in front of him, hand on his shoulder. For a moment he stands, shocked that he hadn't heard, nor seen, Marston dismount from Old Boy and walk up to him. He was drunker than he thought. John must have called his name a few times.

"Marston," He warns, though through the slurred words, this time there is real warning, real panic. "I _cannot_ deal with you right now."

"Tell me what happened." There, the Lemoyne air stills. The county was absolutely stunning, with its red roads, hidden fishing ponds and lakes, with its purple and pink sunsets and blue and orange sunrises, and it all stills. The night air is thick, but it's warming, not as warm as the desert.  
What was he saying?

John's eyes. He can see them through his blurred vision, through the pounding headache, and they're... What? What are they? They're... Worried. Accepting. Shit, they're comforting.

Mary.

"Mind your own godamn business, Marston." Arthur warns him, pushing the hand off his shoulder as he walks to Bou. He's sure he's stumbling, at least a little, but it makes no difference to him. If he can get somewhere, anywhere, then he'll be ok. He'll be fine.  
John had other ideas and before Arthur can take more than a few steps towards his beloved grey mustang he puts a hand on his arm, it's a firm grip and he looks concerned. 

Concerned?

Arthur has a puzzled look on his face, but thanks to the way he portrays emotions he comes off as an annoyed and angry look. Two things he'd never been good at; using words and expressing emotions. The journal helped with that.

"Arthur," John starts, his voice steady, a smooth but rough lullaby. The edges of said voice are raspy, and why is he even thinking that?  
"Please, tell me. You ain't in a good place."

"Fuck off. Ain't none of us in a good place. You deal with your issues, I'll deal with mine." Arthur warns again. He doesn't pull away from the grip as he doesn't know how stable is he. How _drunk_ he is. How beat up he is. Hell, he just doesn't know anymore. Dutch had been weighing on him, everything had gone bad, Sean was dead, Davy was dead, Mac was dead, Jenny was dead... When did it end? With him dead, too? With John dead? With Hosea dead? Where was Dutch taking them?  
Well, they were his issues. Not Marston's. Not Mary's. Mary, she... She...

He was on the floor. He was on the floor? Why was he on the floor? John was in front of him, sitting too.

John speaks. His voice is soft, almost a whisper and it takes him a few seconds to register what he even said. His hand is still on his arm, grip firm, and he can't- he can't hide. Not like this, he can't get away. Shit, he was so useless. A useless drunk.  
"Arthur, please."

"What do you care, John? Why'd you come out lookin' for me anyway? Unlike you, I don't abandon my family. Could've left me be till morning."  
That got a reaction out of John. He visibly flinched back but his hand was still on his arm, still gripping tight. What did he care? Why did he care? And why the hell did John find him before Charles did anyway? Charles was the better hunter and tracker by far, how the hell did John know where to find him?

"Morgan!" John grips tighter and it makes Arthur wince. He already has bruises up his arms, some of which he doesn't doubt are already turning purple, and Marston just keeps his grip firm. Well, this is what he gets for aggravating him. Probably aggravated the blonde man with the eyepatch in the bar too.

"First of all, you damn well know I care for Abagail," Arthur bit back a reply. It took all he had, but he somehow managed not to slide in a snarky comment and let him continue. " _and_ Jack, but, Jesus, Arthur, look at yourself. You can't keep up this act."

Act? Of course he knew. Of course everyone knew. He was just a sad man, a lonely man. He was a killer, a workhorse, and he prided himself on his work, but...But-... But he didn't know. He just didn't know anymore. Mary had left him after a simple misunderstanding, it seemed. She had left him because she didn't want to see his view, over a few misspoken words, a few misguided morals, but was it his fault? He if had been clearer, better at communicating, better at being a friend... 

Arthur finds himself speaking. The pain is too much, his swimming vision is too much, _John_ is too much and no, no he can't keep Mary hidden from him. He can't.  
He probably has a black eye.

"Mary... " He can't finish the words. What would he say? He left her? She was never with him to begin with. They were never one, never a couple, never whole, they would never be together. They wouldn't even be friends.

To his surprise John isn't saying anything. He's just looking at him, black hair cupped around his face and high cheekbones, a few strands falling over his face under his hat. John doesn't remark on that fact that it's Mary, that he's an idiot, of which Arthur himself surely knows, he just stays quiet. His hand is on his arm, but it's not tight anymore.

"Mary... She... I don't know. I just don't know, John." Arthur shakes his head lightly, bringing his head down so his face couldn't be read as easily as his eyes were now covered by his own hat.  
"She- She just... Left. Going to England. She doesn't... Doesn't want me no more."

It takes a moment for John to reply. It's clear he's thinking on his words, it's clear he's unsure of what to say and the time allows Arthur to get lost in his head. _What ifs_ plague him, pull him down, make him wonder about if he could have lived a better life, a worse one, about why the hell he is living this life at all, but the answer for that question came very easily.  
_For them._ He wouldn't leave Dutch, he wouldn't leave the gang, not so easily. He wouldn't stop fighting for him, for their dream- or Dutch's dream, of a better land. One where the poor were not just seen as the poor, but as people. People with dreams, hopes, the poor people who had childhoods, who read story books or had stories told to them, the poor who had a passion for something they could never pressure because the rich said so. The rich who had dreams, hopes, who had childhoods too, who read storybooks or had stories told to them. They were all the same but because some had money, they had dangerous power.

In the time it took Arthur to think up every doubt he ever had John replied. He didn't know how long it had been, a minute, a second, maybe even an hour. What Arthur knew now was that yes, he was _very_ drunk.

"Mary, she could have never lived like this. You couldn't have ever lived her way, neither. It just weren't meant to be. I know you... Know you loved her, and she you, but you both had such different views on life and you're both too stubborn."

He's crying. He's crying? He's crying into John's shoulder. Well, he's more resting his head on John's shoulder, letting the spinning world calm down for a moment, letting the ground stop shaking if just for a second. He doesn't know how he got to this point, doesn't know quite why he's leaning on John, but he is. Arthur doesn't think John knows there are quiet tears running down his face, betraying every single instinct he has to just get up, punch Marston and run away on Bou. But, he says there, hat slightly lifted off his head as he pretty much breathes in John's scent, his vision dark as he's pressed up again his shoulder, body folded in on itself. His ribs hurt, his back hurts, his jaw hurts, hell, just about everything hurts.

His hand grips John's side, his shirt, and he holds on for dear life.  
"She don't want me no more, John. All those _years_ we been dancin' around each other, been dreaming together, and she just- she just... Don't want me."

"Oh, Arthur."  
_"Oh, Arthur."_

John puts a hand on Arthur's back, rubbing small circles, one hand still on his arm.

"I don't know how I can help you."  
" _I am unsure of many things."  
_

"But, I'll always be here, no matter what. You're more than just my brother."  
_"Most of which include my place in life, my place in life with you... But.. You... Oh, Arthur. You'll never change, I know that. And I am unsure if I want to be friends with you."_

"I know why you drink alone. I ain't leaving you to ponder in your own stupid thoughts."  
_"I think it's best we both part ways, here and now. Stop playing this game of ours. Goodbye, Arthur."_

Arthur still has his head buried into John's shoulder, his taller frame draping over him. It's a sad sight, Arthur thinks, but if John is here with him then maybe it's just a little less sad. Just a little less hopeless. Just a little less dark. He murmurs words into the fabric of John's clothing, ones that he doesn't know if the other man hears, but he says them anyway.

"Thank you, John."

**Author's Note:**

> I might add another chapter about the morning Arthur wakes up and see's John, sleeping in his own bedroll next to him around a fire. Arthur is probably just going to say sorry a lot. But, I wouldn't get your hopes up. Most good things I write are short and left up to the readers imagination.
> 
> Also, forgive me for any spelling mistakes. Please do point them out to me if you see any so I can fix them.


End file.
